


when you fall.

by jellyjamjelly



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyjamjelly/pseuds/jellyjamjelly
Summary: peter's vigilantism sometimes puts him in life-or-death situations. matt understands what they're putting themselves through as vigilantes. he just wishes his heart could take a break.





	when you fall.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written marvel fanfic before, so this is all very new to me! it's also been a while since i've written anything at all, and i probably suck now. this is unbetaed - sorry if there are mistakes. 
> 
> warning: lots of run-on sentences, maybe ooc matt, terrible dialogue. violence, descriptions of blood.
> 
> i've only watched the netflix series so i can't say i have a great grasp on his character yet. peter's just... peter. also he's not the rookie vigilante of homecoming. he's been at this for a while so he's sorta in his twenties. i wrote two-thirds of this before i went to watch homecoming, and then the other third afterwards. he hardly gets injured in homecoming??? it's kind of amazing how resilient his skin and bones are. i wrote the action scenes before i watched homecoming, so this is a spider-man that has healing factor but not super-resilient skin and not a super-protective costume [i stuck to the common spandex]. also, i really enjoyed watching videos of cars blowing up.

Something is off.

The streets feel too quiet, ominously silent for a city that never sleeps. Two hours into Spider-man’s nightly patrol, and there has hardly been an incident that has required his attention. (Though he rescued three cats from three different trees in the past hour.) Other than the normal chatter of the city, children running and yelling, the roar of engines and the hiss of exhaust fumes, the brisk slap of rubber soles and plastic heels on concrete, the regular criminals who stalk New York City seem to be taking a break. Or they have been zealously avoiding the spandex-clad vigilante. Either way, Spider-man’s patrol tonight has begun to feel somewhat unnecessary. If New York City’s crime rate truly is going down, perhaps he can take tomorrow night off, and maybe even the night after that to catch up on assignments and sleep.

Peter settles on the edge of a rooftop on the border of Brooklyn and Queens, pulling out a bag of jelly sweets from his Spider-man utility belt. It is during these long, uneventful patrols that Peter is glad he decided to sacrifice a cartridge or two of webbing for a bag of snacks. As he rips the plastic open and prepares to dig out a piece of chemically-flavoured gummy, a car alarm below him starts blaring, red light illuminating a dimly-lit street. With a heavy sigh, Peter tucks the bag of sweets back into his belt, and jumps off the building, catching himself with a web before crashing into the ground.

If Jonah Jameson gave Peter the power to determine headlines at the Daily Bugle, he is sure the next front-page story would be titled, “Will Spider-man Ever Catch a Break?”

The stolen car rolls away, accelerating before the vigilante can land on it. With a grunt of frustration and a muttered “where do you think you’re going”, Spider-man shoots out another web, swinging half a block closer to the car. He ignores the surprised gasps and excited shouts of “Spider-man!” as he races after the car drifting from a crowded main street into a more secluded back alley. The driver is skillful, Peter realises, as they turn into another back alley. They know how to maintain the car’s speed during sharp turns and weave by other cars quicker than the burglars Spider-man normally deals with. Spider-man chases the car across Brooklyn, away from Queens, across a bridge, and into Lower Manhattan. After twenty minutes of high-speed pursuit, the car pulls into a blind alley, brakes screeching.

Spider-man stops, crouching sideways on the red brick wall on the left of the alley. For a moment, everything is too silent. The car’s engine cut, not a movement or a breath from the driver hidden behind tinted windows. It is all so strange. Spider-man can feel his senses tingling subtly, almost too faint to pay any attention to. He jumps from the red brick to the metallic roof of the car, yanking the driver’s door open with his web in the process, intending to pull out the driver as well. The driver darts out, quick as mice, before the web-shooter can lay any sticky goo on him.  

Everything happens in the span of three seconds.

The instant the soles of Spider-man’s boots touch the metal of the roof, his spidey senses flare like nails hammering into his skull. In Peter’s peripheral vision, he sees the driver stick up his middle finger, but his other hand grips something tightly. It looks like a remote. It _is_ a remote.

_Oh shit._

Peter watches all of this in slow-motion, in terror. Even with his enhanced agility, his limbs are slow; even when his heartbeat rabbits, it seems to thud against his chest cavity so loud and so slow; pressing a button couldn’t have taken more than a millisecond, but Peter watches as the driver’s thumb pushes down and down and down. He vaguely hears a “ _fuck you_ _spider-jerk!”_ from the driver’s direction and finds himself diving off the car, but it is too late.

From his position in the air, body parallel to and facing the ground, toes only an inch from the car, he sees the sparks fly out of the headlights and the hood first, before the red flame rips out of the windshield and all the windows, and finally explodes through the roof, spitting out smoke and charred metal. The force of the blast throws the vigilante across the alley into the brick wall. He can distinctly feel his lower two ribs crack and his shoulder dislocate. His entire back is bound to blossom into a massive bruise. Spider-man rights himself from his upside-down position as he slides down onto the ground and assesses the damage through a haze of pain. Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, far too many cuts from flying glass shards and broken metal, numerous scrapes and bruises, boots and tights half burnt off and melted, exposed skin angry red and blistered.

 _Probably a concussion too_ , Peter’s rattled brain adds.

The last thing he sees is the fiery burning of the wreckage, dark smoke trailing into the night sky and permeating every corner of the alley before everything slips into darkness.

* * *

The blast from the explosion does not escape Daredevil’s keen ears. It is faint, almost too faint, too distant. But he grabs hold of the sound and drowns out everything else he has been listening to -- shouting matches in abusive homes, children crying, conversations by scheming burglars. He can definitely hear the murmur of a fire. The acrid smell of smoke creeps into the air around him, subtle, from far away. The accuracy of Daredevil’s placement powers diminishes the farther away he is from the source, but from his perch on a Hell’s Kitchen rooftop, he can tell it comes from Lower Manhattan.

That’s a half hour sprint, even if Daredevil can run as fast as a car. (He can.) He’ll be too late. It is not even in his territory, his city; it shouldn’t be Matt’s business. But something draws him to it, something he can’t explain, an uneasiness, a feeling of urgency.

He starts running.

* * *

When Peter comes to, the wreckage is still burning, but is more smoke than fire. The heap of charred metal no longer resembles a car. Some of his more shallow cuts have closed up; the burnt skin doesn’t look quite so irritated anymore. His ribs are still broken, however, and his shoulder, still dislocated. As Peter prepares himself to pop his shoulder back into place, he hears several voices. Strangely gleeful voices. _Who would be happy standing next to a burning car?_

The first voice, reedy and laden with sibilance and sinister intent, “we should kill Spider-man nice and slow. He deserves it.”

_I could do with some spit-roasted pig cooked nice and slow. Not Spider-man cooked nice and slow._

The second voice, lower and uncertain, though deeper and beefier, “but what if he starts fighting back? Spider-man’s one hell of a stubborn bastard to take down.”

_Damn right I am. You better regret tonight._

The third voice, bored, “he already looks dead. Can’t we just put a bullet in him to make sure, and get out of this boiling shithole?”

_An unexpected voice of reason._

Peter sets his shoulder with a grunt. He can see flickering silhouettes on the other side of the wreckage. To his endless annoyance, they continue to bicker as they make their way around the flaming not-car. With growing dread, he realises that he is hearing more than three people’s footsteps. _Ten people? Twenty? Cops? Gangsters?_ His spidey-senses start tingling again, persistently, vigorously.

The first voice, “we should at least give him a good slap around.”

_Not happening._

Fixing his jaw in determination, Spider-man readies himself for the slugfest.

The second voice, “but what if he can move alright?”

Peter tries to pull himself upright from his slumped resting position. His entire torso feels like one enormous, tender bruise.

He breathes out a single, heartfelt _fuck._

The third voice, “let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes into Daredevil’s sprint, the sounds of commotion reach him. He doesn’t hear much more than a gunshot, the thudding of hand-to-hand combat, and another gunshot. The second bullet meets flesh.

Daredevil urges his body to move faster.

* * *

Quashing the pain, Spider-man sits up and webs the first two who enter his line of sight, immobilising them. Their cries of protest wash over him as he numbs his senses to dull the throbbing ache that has diffused throughout his body. Through a flurry of trench coat fabric, the third person brandishes a gun and shoots. Spider-man rolls out of the way and dodges the bullet, feeling the thrum of adrenaline pump through his veins. Mobsters scramble towards him, recklessly swinging clubs and metal rods. The vigilante recognises them from the street, the regular joes of the New York crime scene; thugs who terrorise the lawful citizens of New York, yet are at the bottom of the food-chain in the New York underworld. The voiceless who resort to other avenues to be heard. Predators on the surface, but the first to be preyed upon. Tame when compared to their masters.

A jagged section of broken pipe crashes down onto his shoulder. Spider-man musters up what (dwindling) strength he has and pulls it over himself, flinging the pipe-wielder spine-first into the ground. He bends over backwards to duck a rusty baseball bat (just barely, as it grazes the fibres of his mask, right on the tip of his nose), sweeping a leg at the criminal’s ankle. Spider-man turns around and delivers a swift knee to another’s abdomen. A man waving a knife takes an elbow to the neck, but only after nicking the vigilante in the chest, opening a tear right across the spider logo. Despite Spider-man’s disorientation, body after body falls to the ground around him, strewn around like discarded toys.

“Question,” Spider-man diplomatically inquires, trying to hide how hard he’s panting and resisting the urge to keel over. (Physical exertion with two broken ribs is no easy feat.) “Did someone put a giant bounty on my head?”

He floors another by webbing them to the ground.

“I could really use some of that cash,” Spider-man adds.

He yanks two men together with web, and they knock each other out cold with their heads. Peter’s muscles strain in response.

“Superheroes need to eat too, you know.”

He picks another man up by the waist and bodily throws him across the alley. A wound in the process of healing reopens with bloody vigour.

“If you could spare a name,” Spider-man continues, vaulting over three men running at him from all different directions. They crash and topple into a groaning heap. He webs them together. “I would appreciate if you could tell me who your boss is.”

Peter lands on a raw, blistered foot - his boot is no more - and suppresses a grimace, making a show of brushing ash and dust off his ruined costume. Keeping up the witty facade grows more difficult by the second. He finds it strenuous to simply move his limbs.

Everything hurts. Speaking hurts. Breathing hurts. Standing hurts. He can feel the high from the adrenaline rush trickle away as every miserable sensation returns and overwhelms him. Helplessness, desperation, the will to live and the urge to rest battling with raging intensity, all concentrated within the physical ache of his sore muscles and weary bones. Peter is so absorbed in his pain that he nearly misses it - the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, the whiz of a bullet slicing through air. He doesn’t hear it until his spidey senses pummel at his brain, screaming at every fibre in his body to move, dodge, duck, evade - anything at all. But the fatigue takes over, and he is _just too slow_.  

The bullet pierces through suit, skin, sinew, ripping through flesh, grazing the smooth muscles of his entrails. The shock of the impact almost distracts Peter from the agony, with the force of a punch that steals the air from his chest. Peter watches in horror as the red of his blood paints over the red of his suit, billowing out from the wound, creeping across his abdomen. It takes a second, and the pain rushes back in excruciating waves. Spider-man presses a trembling hand to the wound, slippery with blood, as he shoots a web at the man with the gun, the last man standing. He slams the gunman into the nearest brick wall, effectively choking the cheer of victory into a cry of anguish.

Unmoving bodies and burning debris litter everywhere Peter sees.

_This must be what Hell looks like._

Nauseous from pain and exhaustion, and light-headed from the blood loss, he lets himself fall.

* * *

 A block away, Daredevil starts hearing the heartbeats. The sounds of commotion have died away. Only the fire and smoke remain. He does a quick rundown - at least fifteen people, all unconscious, no fatalities, mostly unfamiliar minus one. The situation is not wholly unexpected, but it shrouds Matt with a sense of foreboding. The heart he recognises is beating too fast to be normal, breaths too shallow and quick to be fine. The metallic scent of blood, the blood of a man he knows all too well, wafts into the air around him.

Daredevil knows his senses hardly fail him, but not for the first time, he desperately wishes that he is wrong about what he is sensing. It can’t be right. Peter, who has always been so careful. Peter, who has always been the one to come out of a fight unscathed. Peter, who deflects blows with clever lines and wins battles with cheeky grins. In all his years of crime-fighting, very few things scare Daredevil anymore. But as he crosses the last rooftop and scales down the last building, his heart leaps into his throat and his hands shake, even as he curls his fingers into fists to steady them.

It takes all of five heartbeats to reach Peter, lying on the ground, unresponsive. When Matt touches the concrete around Peter, he can feel the stickiness of blood, thick and heavy on his gloves. It pools around the both of them, enveloping Peter in a morbid, bloody deathbed. Matt pulls out his phone, hands still shaking, and speed dials Claire. He wills silently for her to pick up, each ring a reminder of the blood Peter’s losing. It takes seven rings for Claire to pick up - seven rings too many, Matt thinks. But with the assurance that she’s coming over immediately in her car, having sensed the urgency (and _fear_ ) in his voice, Daredevil turns back to his neighbouring vigilante.

Matt pushes Spider-man’s mask back, uncovering only Peter’s mouth and nose, bunching the fabric on his cheekbones so Peter can breathe a little easier. His fingers brush over Peter’s lips, lips he knows so very well, and Matt’s heart clenches painfully. If he were to lose Peter today… he… what… _fuck._ He _can’t_ think about it. He _refuses_ to think about it. He rips a piece of Spider-man’s costume from the torn fabric, and wraps it tightly around Peter’s abdomen where he can feel most of the blood flowing from, applying pressure to the entry wound. With his hand on Peter’s skin, Matt can feel the erratic heartbeat thrumming under his fingertips and the bullet still inside. Fury bubbles up inside him, and Matt has to fight to restrain himself from doing anything reckless. He focuses instead on continuing to apply pressure to the wound and monitoring Peter’s breaths and heartbeats. Despite his own constant panic, the simple signs of Peter being _alive_ calm Matt and drag him back to the present.

As Matt tries to move Spider-man into recovery position, he hears Peter’s eyes flutter open, lashes brushing against the fabric of his mask, slowly, so very slowly. It makes Matt stop, a little relieved, but still very much afraid, and he unconsciously tightens his grip on the arm he was trying to re-position.

“Am I in Hell?” Peter rasps out. A thin stream of blood trickles past his lips, but they quirk up into a weak smile nevertheless.

Matt tries to lighten his tone, unsuccessfully force a small grin, and when he finally chokes out, “what do you mean?” it sounds more like a sob than playful banter.

“I mean, didn’t the Devil personally come by to see me off?” A trembling, spandex-clad hand reaches up to cup Matt around the jaw. “So _devilishly_ good-looking, too.”

A stricken “ _Pete_ ” is the only Matt manages to gasp out before the tears come. The thumb around his jaw starts to stroke the stubble around his chin.

“Matt, I’m fine. Healing factor, remember?” Peter hoists himself up onto his elbow, grimacing in the process. “You see? Give me a few hours. I’ll be good as new.”

“You have a bullet in you,” Matt chuckles, voice still waterlogged.

“We’ll take it out, and voila. Good as new,” Peter demonstrates with a small flourish.

Matt pushes him back down into the recovery position, his smile now a little more genuine. He still struggles to wipe the concern off his face, trying to ignore how much his tears still want to fall, how hard his muscles are clenching and unclenching in anxiety. He attempts a familiar laugh and an affectionate “asshole” as he lays Peter down and readjusts his makeshift bandage. But the shaking in his hands return, and he knows he can’t hide it from Peter, not when Matt unconsciously starts gripping Peter a little too hard again. Peter places a hand over Matt’s and squeezes back gently, grounding Matt, comforting Matt, as though Daredevil were the one injured and not Spider-man. Matt has never felt so useless.   

“Fuck Pete, I was so worried,” Matt breathes out, throat raw with honesty.

Peter pauses for a moment, three heartbeats, Daredevil counts, and the affection is returned so wholly. Pete’s touch is featherlight on Matt’s limbs, skin still separated by thin layers of fabric, but not enough to mask the tenderness and appreciation that radiates off Peter in waves, so strong that it seems to waft into the atmosphere around them, surrounding them like a mist. Pete’s fingers run down Matt’s chest, from his shoulders to ribs. They stop as Peter spreads his hand over Matt’s ribs, a warm, soothing weight to remind him of all the things they share.  

“I know, I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments! or anything really! if this really sucked, i'd like to know. if you don't think it sucked, i'd also like to know.
> 
> or yell at me on [tumblr](jellyjamjelly.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> or my [twitter](twitter.com/satokairin).


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